


Humanity

by twdsunshine



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-12 19:09:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13553739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twdsunshine/pseuds/twdsunshine
Summary: A one-shot that turned into a mini-series.  The reader has lost her faith in humanity, surviving through murder and corruption, only to have her decisions called into question when Daryl Dixon appears in her life, and proves to her that perhaps there are good people left in the world.  But when Daryl's faith is challenged, will the reader be able to help him keep his soul in tact?





	1. An Angel's Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reader has been on her own for a long time and has lost herself in her desperate battle for survival. When a storm rolls in, she gets trapped in a house with Daryl Dixon, a stranger with angel wings emblazoned across his back, and sets herself a challenge to spin his moral compass. Will the reader succeed in getting Daryl to let loose and abandon his faith in humanity, or will Daryl make her question her post-apocalyptic choices?

Another flash of lightning lit up the sky, illuminating the shambling figures of the undead as they stumbled restlessly along the street, chasing the storm as it passed over the county.  A rumble of thunder echoed through the town, and you backed away from the window of the house that you’d broken into as the sky darkened and the rain began.  The humidity had been intensifying over the last week, and you’d known a storm would be due, not wanting to risk being caught out in it as it stirred up the masses of walkers.

You’d done a sweep of the house, and now you were barricaded in the living room, the sofa against one door, a bookcase against the other, as you curled up in an armchair in front of the small blaze that you’d managed to get going in the fireplace.  There’d been no food to be had in any of the kitchen cupboards, but you’d found an almost-full bottle of whiskey behind the empty bookshelf when you’d moved it, and you weren’t opposed to a liquid dinner.  

You cradled the bottle in your arms, considering how many shots you’d be able to handle before you passed out.  It had been a while since you’d last had a drink and you were skin and bones these days with food becoming harder to come by.

A pounding on the door behind the bookcase brought you to your feet, knife in hand as you approached the entrance, holding your breath.  You watched in horrified anticipation as the door began to inch open.

A dirt-stained, suntanned arm appeared, as the wooden shelves were forced back, and a man tumbled into the room, slamming the door behind him, and sliding the bookcase back into place.  He moved so fast that your first impression of him was of the leather vest he wore, rustic white angel wings stitched roughly onto the back.  He spun round, a crossbow raised before him, as he took in the room, his eyes landing on you, standing before him with your knife raised in one hand and the liquor clasped protectively in the other.

‘Hey, ya on yer own?’  His voice was deep and gravelly, his accent southern, much like your own.  'I ain’t gon’ hurt ya.’

'Tha’s reassuring when ya got that bow aimed at my head,’ you scoffed, refusing to lower your knife, standing your ground as the archer moved towards you.

'What’s ya name?’

You shook your head, a smirk on your face as the man tried to take control of the situation.  'Nah, it don’ work like that, angel.  See, you stumbled into my shelter, so I’m askin’ the questions, alright?’

He grunted unintelligibly which you took as an agreement for you to continue, so you took a step towards him, angling the knife towards his face as the point of his arrow pressed into your chest.

'Who are ya then?’

'Name’s Daryl.’

'Hi Daryl, I’m Y/N,’ you grinned at him gesturing to the weapons you both held.  'I’d shake ya hand but these thangs kinda get in the way, dontcha think?  Why don’t we try puttin’ 'em down an’ havin’ an actual conversation, huh?’

'Depends.’

'On what, angel?’

'Whether ya gon’ share that whiskey.’

You scoffed, lifting the bottle to inspect the dusty label.  'What, this?  Oh no, I ain’t sharin’ this with no one.  It’s gon’ be a long night an’ I don’t intend to remember a single bit of it.’

Daryl huffed but lowered the bow anyways, slinging it across his back, as he moved towards the window to survey the horde outside.  Their numbers were showing no signs of dwindling as the storm raged on.

'Fine, then I ain’t sharin’ my food.’

'Fine.’

You sheathed your knife, making your way back to the chair by the fire and dropping into the seat, twisting the cap from your bottle and taking a long swig.

Daryl crossed the floor towards you, flopping down onto the carpet and laying back with his arms crossed behind his head.

You studied him appraisingly, finding yourself strangely attracted to the defined muscles in his arms and the large barrel chest that strained against his plaid shirt.  His hair was dark, curling round to frame his cool blue eyes.  At that moment, he was chewing on his thin bottom lip, the movement emphasising the sharp cut of his cheekbones, and you thought that somewhere beneath the layer of grime that coated his skin he might even be handsome.

'So what’s ya story, angel?’ you asked, twisting round and swinging your legs over the arm of the chair.  'What brings ya to my door on such a gloomy night?’

He shrugged, meeting your eyes.  You could see his guardedness there, and knew he wasn’t sure enough of you to give you any real details, despite having decided quickly that you weren’t an immediate threat.

'Out on a run, got caught in the storm.’

'A man of few words, huh?  

'Ya asked for my story.  Tha’s it.’

'Oh honey, ain’t no-one’s story that short these days.’

When he didn’t respond you decided to push a little harder, taking another swig from the bottle in your hand.

'Ya got a camp somewhere?  A group waitin’ for ya?’

'Maybe.  Ain’t really none o’ yer business now, is it?’

'Guess not, but it’s gon’ be a long night an’ it’s gon’ get borin’ real fast if ya don’ talk.’

'Seein’ as ya don’ intend to remember it, there ain’t a problem there I can see.’

You smirked at his smart mouth, enjoying the banter after so long on your own.

'But if I ain’t gon’ remember it, there ain’t no problem with ya tellin’ me nothin’, is there?’

'Wha’s yer story then?’  Daryl asked, tilting his head to the side to glare at you.  'Come on, if yer so sure tha’ everyone has one I’m guessin’ yer gon’ have a good one.’

“Fraid yer overestimatin’ me, angel.  My story’s just more o’ the same ol’ shit.  People died, I survived.  The details ain’t worth knowin’.’

'Suit yerself.’

Daryl pushed himself up on his elbow and reached for the backpack that he’d been carrying, dragging it across the floor towards him and digging inside to pull out a tin of some sort of canned pasta.

Busting it open with a  penknife that he pulled from his trouser pocket, he proceeded to dig two fingers into the saucy mixture and scoop it into mouth.

You were about to comment on his animalistic eating style when your stomach growled with hunger, and you silenced it with a long glug of liquor.  Picking at the bottle’s label with your nails, you decided to open up a little, to see if by offering up something about yourself, you might get him talking.

'I had a group, some friends I knew from before.  Lost 'em last time there was a storm like this.  Got caught up in the chaos out there an’ then they were jus’ gone.  Been on my own ever since.’

He nodded thoughtfully, his expression softening for a moment, before asking you a question.

'How many walkers ya killed?’

'What?  Lord, I dunno.  Too many to count, that’s fer sure.’

'How many people ya killed?’

Your chest tightened at the question, and you looked away from his enquiring gaze, focusing on the flames flickering in the grate.

'What’s it to ya?’

'Just a question.  Ya wanted to talk.’

'Well, I’d say that ain’t really none o’ yer business now, is it?’  You mimicked his response from earlier but he was undeterred.

'Why?’

’S'dog eat dog out there now, angel.’  You flung your arms wide, swinging the bottle between your fingers, the amber liquid sloshing up the sides.  'Girl’s gotta do what she needs to to survive.’

'An’ what exactly did ya need to do?’

'I became the stronger dog,’ you snapped, tired of the archer’s persistence.  'I saw people that had what I needed an’ I took it.’

Daryl narrowed his eyes, looking you over as you reclined in the chair.  'But there ain’t nothin’ of ya?  Surely there ain’t many people that couldn’ take ya in a fight?’

You grinned smugly at him, taking yet another shot of whiskey.  Your head was beginning to swim now, but there was something about this man that made you want to put him in his place, to prove to him that you could fend for yourself.

'Size don’ matter if they’re sleepin’.’

You heard his sharp intake of breath and saw his eyes turn cold.  From his reaction you couldn’t escape the feeling that you’d been being tested and that you’d somehow just failed.  

It was true that you’d had to sink to a vicious low to stay alive for as long as you had.  Others had strength on their sides, or numbers, but you were small and alone so you’d had to be willing to get a little dirty to survive.  You’d find another survivor or, even better, a group.  You’d watch them from a distance, tracking them as they moved or keeping an eye on their camp.  At some point everyone had a successful run, and when that time came and their supplies were running high, you’d slip in in the night and do what you had to.  It had worked for you so far and you weren’t about to apologise for it.

Feeling his judgemental gaze on you, you tilted your head back and poured more liquor down your throat, feeling the burn in your chest as it warmed your body from the inside out.  The effects of the heavy measure hit you like a freight train and you hiccupped as you dragged the back of your hand across your mouth, wiping away the excess liquid.

'Ya gon’ wanna slow down with that,’ Daryl raised an eyebrow at you as you giggled at him drunkenly, waving the bottle in front of his face.  

'Oops, nearly gone!’

'Jesus,’ you heard him mutter as he pushed himself up and returned to the window, lighting a cigarette as he checked on the situation outside.

'So, angel,’ you pushed yourself up from the chair and stumbled to his side, knocking into him as you failed to stop your feet moving in time.  ’D'ya ever let loose or are ya always this tightly wound?’

He didn’t bother responding, and you felt a powerful need to not be the only mess in the room at that moment, as the distaste rolled off of him in waves.  You hated the way it made you feel, as if you’d had any other choice, as if you’d taken the wrong path somewhere and now couldn’t find your way back.  You couldn’t think too deeply about what you’d been driven to, and instead focused on turning the tables on the archer.  You’d taken so much from people since the world ended, but you’d not yet managed to steal someone’s dignity, their morality, and in your drunken mind this suddenly seemed like a challenge you could rise to.

You leant into Daryl’s body, feeling him tense at the physical contact as you curled your fingers into the soft fabric of his shirt.  'Come on, angel.  Ya can judge me or ya can join me.  We’re all fucked either way, right?’

Your faces were so close that you could smell the smoke on his breath as he exhaled deeply, refusing to meet your eyes.

'Ya been ya own too long, Y/N.’

'But I’m alive, an’ I’d say I’m havin’ a hell of a lot more fun than you.’

'It ain’t about fun.’

'What is it about?’

He looked at you finally, the disgust transparent in his eyes.  

'Ya wouldn’t understand.’

'Try me.’  You tugged him closer, your bodies flush as you searched his face for a chink in his armour.

’S'about rememberin’ what it is to be human.  S'about family, an’ buildin’ somethin’ tha’s worth fightin’ for.’

You snorted at his words, leaning back and feeling his hands grasp your waist to stop you falling as you overbalanced.

'Bein’ human in this world is primal, angel.  Ain’t nobody good left out there.  It’s about takin’ whatcha want, when ya want it, and damnin’ the weak ones that try to stop ya.’

As his eyes drifted back to the fire behind you, you released his shirt and reached up to curl your hands into the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling his face back down to you.

'Come on now, when was the last time ya let go?  When was the last time ya took somethin’, not cos ya needed it, but cos ya wanted it?’

Your voice was husky with the alcohol and you let your lips ghost his, waiting for him to take the bait, growling in frustration as he retained his stoicism.

’S'gon’ be a long night, remember, angel?  Ain’t no one here gon’ judge ya fer takin’ whatcha want.’

You licked your lips, watching as his eyes followed the tip of your tongue, and then the grip of his hands on your waist tightened, his fingers biting into the skin in a way that you were sure would leave bruises, but instead of pulling you in, he was pushing you roughly away.

'This ain’t happenin’.’  He looked you up and down, the judgement still evident as he sighed deeply.  'Yer drunk an’ ya ain’t what I’m lookin’ for.’

'But angel,’ you whined as the room started to go fuzzy at the edges of your vision.  'I’m what ya found.’

 

* * *

 

A chink of sunlight from a gap in the curtains at the window woke you the next morning with a dry mouth and a pounding in your head.  Your side hurt where it was pressed against the arm of the chair you were curled up in, and you had absolutely no idea of where you were.  You knew that a storm had been rolling in and that you’d been looking for shelter, but everything past that point was a blank.

'Lord, help me,’ you whimpered, twisting yourself round to place your feet on the floor and burying your head between your knees when the movement made the room spin.  As the pace of the spinning slowed, you dropped to your knees, knocking something over and startling yourself with the noise.  

'Loud noises,’ you groaned, running your hands through your hair.  'Not good today.’

You reached over for what you’d displaced and found a couple of tins of canned food, with a bottle of water beside them.  They’d been left on the floor beside the now-cold hearth and you had no idea how they’d gotten there.  You looked round the room, trying to ignore the queasiness that took hold as you moved your head, but there was no evidence that anyone else had been there.

What the hell had happened last night?

Your side was still bothering you, and you pulled your t-shirt up to inspect your aching waist.  To your surprise, dark bruises marred your pale skin on both sides, shaped and spaced out like fingerprints.

You racked your brain for anything it contained, any snippet of the previous evening, but all you could conjure up was the image of a pair of ragged white wings, shining bright against the darkness.  

_Weird…_

As you assessed the fingerprints on your skin for a moment longer, you came to what you thought to be the only logical conclusion.

Last night you’d been touched by an angel.

Maybe it was time to change your ways…


	2. A Devil's Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reader has turned over a new leaf, working for supplies instead of killing for them, though her dreams are still haunted by visions of angel wings, a vague recollection from a stormy night that she barely remembers. When she’s asked to work with a new community, she finds herself face-to-face with her angel as he forces her to confront the devil inside.

The midday sun was scorching down, burning through your cotton tank top and covering your skin in a sheen of sweat.  You were perched high up in the branches of a tree, near to a satellite station that you’d been tasked to keep watch over.  You sat up, reaching for the binoculars hanging from your neck, as a truck approached the gate, loaded with crates which you could see were full of fresh fruit and vegetables.  You watched as a few men appeared from inside the main building, walking over to let their comrades in, and unloading.  You recognised the leader of the group, who appeared to be assessing the supplies, checking the contents of each crate carefully.  You’d seen him before, but this time he had a new man at his side, someone you didn’t recognise.  You made a mental note to report this back, before letting the binoculars drop, and reaching for the bottle of water you had clamped between your knees.  Taking a long swig, you wiped your hand across your brow, wondering if this was really a better form of survival.

There had been a time when you’d been worse than the group you currently observed, a one-woman murder machine, watching other survivors or communities, much like you were doing now, waiting for them to have a successful run, then slipping in whilst they were sleeping and silently slipping your knife into their skulls, before making off with their supplies.  You had been alone and, though you’d never admit it, terrified.  As food became more scarce, it had simply been the easiest way to keep yourself alive, though you had to push it to the back of your mind after the deed was done, each death at your hands eating away a little more at your soul.

Then a little while back, you’d taken shelter in an abandoned house when a storm rolled in.  You didn’t remember anything the following morning, having found comfort in a bottle of whiskey for lack of any other sort of sustenance, but you’d woken to find food and water beside you, and with an image of angel wings burned into your brain.  You couldn’t shake the feeling that something significant had happened that night, and a part of you truly believed that you’d been touched by an angel, given a second chance.  At the very least, you were alive and clothed, and somebody had cared enough to leave you supplies which they doubtless needed themselves.  Your faith in humanity had been somewhat restored, and you resolved then and there that you would pass on the good deed, that you would keep your hands clean going forward.  It hadn’t been easy, there had been nights when you were so hungry that you felt sure that you would just slip slowly away as you slept, but you’d not taken another human life since that night and you felt better for it, no matter what your growling stomach would tell you.

Things had turned around when you’d run into Jesus.  You’d been scoping out an old gas station, wondering if there’d still be any supplies left in the storage room at the back, when a long-haired, lithe-bodied figure had appeared as if from nowhere, and taken you under his wing.  You knew he had a community, The Hilltop, but you had never been invited to join and you’d never asked.  You knew he got a vibe from you, something you couldn’t help, as if your hands were still stained with blood, but you also knew that you were useful to him in his position as a scout for his people.  He tasked you with keeping watch over other groups, scavenging in new towns, finding ammo and weapons, and in turn he kept you going with a steady supply of food and water.  It was an arrangement that worked, and you were grateful for it most days.

Not today though, you thought, pulling your hair into a ponytail on the top of your head, and taking another drink.  Today you were done.

You slipped soundlessly down the tree, landing lightly on the balls of your feet, before you stole further into the forest and headed towards the arranged meeting point.  You knew you’d be early, but you also knew from the trucks parked up in the satellite station compound that everyone was home and likely to be settling in for the night.  They rarely stepped outside the fences after dark.  

To your surprise, Jesus was waiting for you when you reached the cabin, pacing back and forth in front of the shack, whilst another man sat on the steps that led up to the door, a crossbow resting on his knee.  You were wary about approaching with a stranger present, but Jesus turned on his heel at that moment and caught sight of you between the trees, raising a hand in greeting.

As you made your way over, your hand on your knife where it was tucked into your belt, you watched the other man stand and look you up and down.  The look he gave you was strange and unwelcome, almost recognition though you were sure you’d never seen him before.  He was older than Jesus, his skin tanned by sun and dirt, his hair hanging down around a face that sported high cheekbones and cool blue eyes.  Before you could react to his appraisal of you, a shutter came down and his expression was vacant, his voice gruff as he spoke to the scout beside him.

‘This her?’

‘Yes, this is Y/N,’ Jesus nodded, gesturing to you as you came to a stop in front of them, crossing your arms across your chest and cocking your head to one side.

'Who the hell is this?’

'Y/N, this is Daryl.  He’s a member of a new community that The Hilltop’s hoping to work with.’

'Great,’ you shrugged.  'What’s he doin’ here?’

'We’re gon’ take out the Saviours at the satellite station,’ Daryl spoke directly to you this time, though you noticed that he avoided meeting your eyes.  'Need some information on numbers 'n’ stuff.’

'Numbers 'n’ stuff?’ you mocked, switching your gaze to Jesus.  'Christ, where did ya find this one?’

'Y/N,’ Jesus warned, stepping forward to take your arm and turn you away from the archer, his voice low.  'His group have numbers and weapons.  We need them.  Play nice, okay?’

'Fine,’ you huffed, though you still weren’t happy with the idea.  'But I ain’t seein’ how this redneck thinks he’s gon’ take out that whole group.  It’s like a military operation up there an’…’  You glanced back to where Daryl was scuffing his boot against the ground behind you, chewing on his thumbnail.  'Jesus, he has a crossbow!’

'Give him a chance,’ Jesus returned your hostile stare, before turning back round, dragging you with him.  

Whilst you’d been talking, the newcomer’s attention had been caught by something moving in the wood behind him, and he’d turned to scan the trees, revealing the ragged white angel wings that were stitched onto the back of his leather vest.

Your breath caught in your throat, as your mind flashed back to the image that had haunted every dream you’d had since the night of the storm, the angel that had saved you from yourself.

'Ya gon’ help us or what?’ Daryl growled, his focus back on you, glaring up at you through his curtain of hair, as you tried to calm your racing heart.

'Erm, yeah,’ you nodded dumbly.  'I’m gon’ help ya.’

'Great.  Tell me what ya know.’

'I know a hell o’ a lot,’ you smirked, pulling yourself together and raising an eyebrow at him as he finally caught your eye.  'I hear ya got numbers, and I ain’t confident that yer gon’ do my hours of observation justice repeatin’ my findings second-hand.’

His glare intensified, and you dropped your bombshell, watching for a reaction.  'Howsabout I come back with ya, tell ya whole group what they’re up against out there, angel?’

You saw his body tense as he considered your words, chewing on his bottom lip as he considered his options.  You saw him look to Jesus to see if  he’d picked up on the growing atmosphere, but he was looking at his watch and looking to the sky.

'Whatever you’re doing, you need to do it soon.  We’re losing the light.’

'Fine,’ you heard the redneck mutter.  'Come on then.’

You both bid Jesus goodbye, Daryl promising that they’d keep The Hilltop updated as they planned their attack, and then you were alone, walking quietly through the forest, both waiting for the other to speak first.

'I din’t think ya’d remember me.’  He finally broke the silence, glancing over at you, as you kicked at the leaf litter on the ground.

'I don’t, not really,’ you admitted.  'I jus’ have this image in my head of those wings on yer back.  Ya were with me, the night of the storm?’

'I was,’ he confirmed.

'An’ ya left me some food an’ water, I guess?  Thanks for that.’

'Ain’t nothin’.’

'So, what else happened?’  you asked tentatively.  'I mean, I woke up the next day feelin’… different.  I honestly believed…’  You tailed off, laughing at your own stupidity as he waited for you to finish.  'I believed I’d been touched by an angel.’

He scoffed, shaking his head.  'I din’t touch ya, or I tried not to, an’ I ain’t no angel.’

'Tried not to?’

'Yer kinda forceful when ya drunk, girl,’ he smirked.  'Had to hold ya off.’

'Shit.’  You felt your cheeks colour.  'I’m sorry.’

He grew serious all of a sudden, stopping in his tracks and turning to face you.  'Ya know I ain’t takin’ ya back to my group, right?  Ya told me what ya do to survive, and I can’t risk ya hurtin’ my people.’

'Daryl, I don’t do that anymore.  I ain’t taken a life since that night.  I told ya I woke up feelin’ different an’ I guess I thought maybe I was gettin’ a second chance.’

When he didn’t respond, you stepped towards him, closing the distance between you.  'Things got pretty bad after that storm, but I didn’t do it.  I guess that’s cos of you.  I owe ya big time, angel.’

'How’d I know I can trust ya?’  He was still uncertain and you couldn’t blame him.  You’d obviously revealed a lot about yourself during your night together, and you knew your record was tarnished.  

'I guess ya don’t,’ you shrugged, grinning up at him as you stepped closer again.  'Maybe I’m the devil.’

'Ya did have a pretty good go at corruptin’ me.’

'An’ ya resisted.  I guess ya really are an angel, huh?’

'Ain’t gon’ be takin’ advantage of no drunk lady.’

'So ya only turned me down cos I was drunk?’

'That ain’t what I meant.’

You smiled teasingly, taking one more step forward so that you were pressed up against him.  'Whatever ya say, angel.  Maybe ya need a lil devil in ya life.’

He moved around you and continued walking, and you soon fell into step beside him again.

'So, where are we goin’ if ya ain’t takin’ me back to ya community?’

'Somewhere nearby.  I’ll leave ya there and go get our leader to come talk to ya.’

'Ya mean to say ya ain’t the leader?’ you laughed.  'I ain’t so sure I want in to that group anyway.’

'Rick will decide how far to trust ya.  He’s good at that, people 'n’ stuff.’

'Maybe yer better than ya think.’

'If I was, I’d o’ left as soon as ya showed up.’

'Ya obviously see somethin’ in me.  Ya left me food even after I told ya what I’d done.’

'Maybe I don’ see ya as the devil.’

'What do ya see me as then?’

He stopped again, breathing deeply, before turning and backing you up against the nearest tree.  Your heart was racing under his intense stare, and your breath caught in your throat.

'I see ya as a lil girl tryin’ to play at knowin’ what she’s doin’.  I could see it in yer eyes when I asked ya how many people ya’d killed.  You weren’t braggin’ about it cos ya was proud, ya was braggin’ cos ya was defensive.  Y'ain’t bad, yer just scared.  Couldn’ just leave ya to wake up with nothin’.’

You nodded slowly, taking in his close proximity, this time initiated by him instead of you.

'But ya gotta stop with the act, girl.  Y'ain’t the devil.  Yer just human.’

It was as if he’d verbalised everything you tried to hide about yourself, everything that made you vulnerable.  You felt exposed, as if he’d torn you open and laid all of your secrets out for the world to see, and it didn’t suit you to be left on the back foot.  You could see him beginning to ease himself away from you, growing uncomfortable with the intimacy of your position, and you saw your opportunity to put yourself back in control.

You leant forward and gripped his shirt collar, pulling him back to you and standing on your tiptoes to press your lips against his, slipping your hand up the back of his neck to hold his mouth to yours.  You felt him tense up, refusing to respond, until you caught his bottom lip between your teeth.  With a growl, his hands went to your waist, and then he was kissing you back, stubble and smoke and calloused fingers combining in something heavenly.

As quickly as the kiss had begun, it ended, and he was pulling away, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth as you grinned wickedly at him, running your fingers through your hair as you caught your breath.

'Yer sure 'bout me not bein’ the devil?’ you husked, chuckling as he glowered at you.

'Not anymore,’ he scowled, turning to stride away from you, calling over his shoulder as you sauntered after him.  'Only devil’s kiss like that.’


	3. A Human Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reader is in hiding, determined not to get drawn in to the ongoing conflict with The Saviours. When a bruised and broken Daryl is left in her charge, she tries her best to put him back together and, in doing so, discovers that maybe they’re both more human than either of them ever imagined. Could they both be exactly what the other one needs?

The cracking of twigs on the forest floor had you immediately alert, your ears straining for further evidence of someone approaching.  You crept to the front of the cabin and peered out of the window, rubbing your sleeve over the cracked glass to remove some of the grime.  There was no movement that you could see, only stillness, the occasional chirp of a bird from high up in the branches above.  You remained frozen for a moment, eyes still searching the shadows for a threat, letting out the breath you’d been holding when nothing appeared.

You’d always been careful, hyper-aware of your surroundings, looking, listening.  You’d been on your own for a while now, having lost your friends a long time ago, and, with the exception of one drunken night whilst holed up waiting out another storm, you’d had to be cautious, vigilant, to keep yourself alive.  For a while you’d been forced to extremes, killing for supplies, becoming a monster yourself in order to ensure that you were strong enough to outrun the undead, but on that drunken night an angel in disguise had showed you proof that human kindness still existed, and since that day you’d tried to turn your life around.  

Daryl Dixon.  The name made you let out a sad sigh.  You’d seen him again after that night, just the once.  You’d been acting as a lookout for Jesus, scout from a nearby community, and had been asked to provide information on the growing threat that was The Saviours to Daryl’s group, so that they could go in and eliminate it.  You remembered Daryl’s refusal to take you back to Alexandria, not trusting you, not wanting to put his people at risk, and the way he’d torn you apart and laid your soul bare in the middle of the woods, having seen through the wall you put up around others.  You remembered the friction of his scruff against your skin, the smell of smoke and leather, and the movement of his mouth on yours as you strove to prove to him that maybe you were the devil after all.

Your information had been solid, reliable, and you’d heard from Jesus that the attack had ultimately been a success, that the Saviours had been wiped out.  Then the scout had signalled you to an emergency meeting upon discovering that there were far more of them than you had ever imagined.  You had been watching an outpost, a fraction of the people that made up the fearsome group, and, though the Alexandrians had managed to achieve a high body count, they hadn’t cut off the head of the snake.  They had been attacked, herded towards a clearing deep in the woods where two of their people had been bludgeoned to death, and Daryl had been taken.

You knew it was time for you to get the hell out of dodge.  It worked for you, spying for Jesus in return for supplies, but you weren’t about to throw yourself into the middle of somebody else’s fight.  This Negan, the leader of the enemy, knew nothing of your existence, and you intended to keep it that way.  You’d told Jesus that you were out, done, and he had understood, but had asked you to stay at the cabin, your meeting spot since the start of your arrangement, so that he’d know where you were and that you were okay.  

‘Please,’ he’d asked, his eyes full of sincerity, and you couldn’t say no.

So this was where you spent your days, hidden away in the cabin, going slowly mad as the hours and days ticked by.  You’d done some horrific things in your time, not really any different to the Saviours except yours had been on a smaller scale, killing to get what you needed, and you’d needed to keep busy to keep your brain from dwelling on those acts.  Without taskings from Jesus to occupy you, you sunk into a depression from which you struggled to rouse yourself, convinced that you were just waiting there to die, waiting until the hellfire below could claim you as its own.  You were the devil, after all.

Worse still were the hours you sat awake at night, imagining what Daryl was going through at Negan’s hands.  From the stories you’d heard, he was bordering on psychotic, and you tried desperately not to think about what that would mean for your angel, picturing him battered and broken on a concrete floor, his wings all askew.  He didn’t deserve what was happening to him.  He’d helped you out in your darkest hour, been your guiding light, the memory you returned to when life got tough: ragged white angel wings shining through the black.  

More rustles and cracks from outside roused you from your thoughts, and you pressed yourself to the wall, reaching for your knife as you heard heavy footsteps climbing the steps to the cabin’s door.

When a knock sounded, two sharp raps, a pause, followed by another three, you sighed with relief, and reached for the bolt, drawing it across quickly before opening the door.

‘Jesus, what are ya doin’ here?’  
Despite having asked you to stay put so he’d know your whereabouts, this was the first time that he’d visited you since you’d bowed out of the fight, and the look on his face told  you it was business.

‘I needed a safe place.  Can I come in?’

‘O’ course,’ you nodded, pulling the door open further and gesturing for him to enter.

He hesitated, glancing at something to his left, and stepping back as another larger figure appeared around the doorframe.

His clothes were relatively clean, grey t-shirt and pants, with a checked shirt thrown over the top and a baseball cap pulled down low over his eyes.  The skin you could see though was filthy, covered in blood and dirt, and the stench emanating from him turned your stomach slightly.  Matted strands of greasy hair hung down past his chin, and when he lifted his face to you, you could see that his eyes were swollen and bruised, the result of a severe beating.  

You gasped in shock as recognition shot through you, your heart skipping a beat as the icy blue gaze met yours.

‘Daryl?’

With a groan, he stumbled inside, slumping down against the far wall, breathing hard.  

‘Jesus, wha’ the hell is this?  I thought-’

‘He escaped.  I went to scope out the Sanctuary and I found him.’

‘I don’ know what to say.  Why are ya here?’

‘We stole a bike to get away, but we had to ditch it.  We knew the Saviours would be looking for it.  He’s not strong enough to get far on foot though,’ he explained, glancing over at the archer who had leant forward and rested his head on his knees.  'He’s barely had anything to eat or drink in days.’

You could tell that your horror was evident on your face, as Jesus reached forward to squeeze your arm reassuringly.

‘He’s out of there now.  He needs to rest though.  I was hoping I could leave him here while I carry on to the Hilltop and get a car.  I’ll come back for him in the morning.’

‘Jesus, the Saviours…’

’…don’t know about this place.  They’re sure to turn up at Hilltop though, and Alexandria.  They’ll turn them upside down looking for him.’

You nodded slowly.  'Okay.’

When Jesus looking questioningly at you, needing clarification, you reiterated.

‘Okay, he can stay here.’

‘Thank you.’  He made his way over to Daryl, crouching by his side, and peering into his eyes, half-hidden behind the straggly fringe that hung over them.  'I’m going to get a car, Daryl.  Y/N will look after you.  I’ll be back at first light.’

The archer grunted, and Jesus turned to leave, thanking you again before he shut the door behind him.  

Left alone with the broken man, you ran your eyes over him, his dejected posture, the exhaustion written across his face, and the grime that covered his skin.  

‘Y'okay on ya own for a few minutes, angel?’ you asked, placing a hand on your hip, cocking your head to one side as you looked down at him, trying hard to act like seeing him this way hadn’t had the effect on you that it had.  

You took his answering mumble as a yes, and slipped out of the door, pausing to grab a couple of old silver buckets that were tucked into the corner of the porch, before jogging lightly down the steps.

When you returned to the cabin, Daryl had moved to lean against the window frame, keeping watch, and you knew that he wasn’t at ease, that he was still waiting for the Saviours to catch up with him.

You dropped the buckets to the ground with a clang, water sloshing over the sides and onto the wooden floorboards, and he jumped, startled, having been locked away in his own head.

‘Alright angel, I have no problem with you staying here.  I’ll even feed you, cos I’m kind o’ generous like that.  But I ain’t putting up with that stank ya got comin’ off ya all night.  Get them rags off.’

He glowered at you from under his cap, watching in silence as you dragged an old wooden chair from the rickety table in the corner and stood it in the middle of the room, nodding to it with a stern look on your face.

'I ain’ playin’ with ya, boy.  Get ya ass over here!’

He slunk across the room, throwing himself into the chair and crossing his arms over his chest, looking at you defiantly.

'Really?  Don’ make me cut those clothes off o’ ya.  I might enjoy it but I’m pretty sure they’re the only ones ya got.’

For a moment, you thought he was going to make you follow through on your threat, but, with a loud huff, he began tugging on the sleeves of his shirt, shrugging it off of his shoulders before rolling his t-shirt up his body and over his head.

You tried to stifle the gasp that left your lips but didn’t manage it and you saw his eyes drop to the floor, as he pulled self-consciously at his fingers.

A bullet wound marred his shoulder, red and angry, though thankfully not infected.  His torso was covered in bruises, ranging from pale yellow to a vivid blue-purple.  As you circled around the chair, you could see that they continued onto his back, disguising some of the older scars, fine white lines criss-crossing over his skin.  

You didn’t say anything, didn’t have a clue what to say, so you fetched a towel that had been drying on a hook on the wall and dipped a corner into the cold water, wetting it enough to wipe away the grime and setting to work.  You tried to work as quickly and methodically as you could, whilst keeping your touch gentle, not wanting to cause the archer any more pain.  As the dirt came away on the coarse fabric, the marks underneath stood out more starkly, and you bit your lip as you pictured the methods used to put them there.  You wanted to reach out to him, to hold him, but you knew that he wouldn’t let you, knew that he would probably crumble if you did, and so you continued to wash him as best you could.  

When you’d finished his top half, you eyed his trousers, debating whether it would be pushing him too far to demand that he remove those too, but he saw the direction of your stare and shoved them down his legs, kicking off his boots as he discarded them on the floor.

'Good thing yer wearin’ underwear, ain’ it, angel?’  You winked at him, ignoring the bruises blooming on his thighs as you started at his feet, wiping at the soles that were black with dirt, using a rougher touch so that you didn’t tickle him too much.  You really didn’t want to be kicked in the face right now.  As you worked your way up, you noticed him start to fidget uncomfortably, and pushed yourself to your feet, dipping the towel back into the water and  handing it to him.

'Here,’ you nodded down at his lap.  'You finish the rest while I go fetch somethin’ to dry ya off with.’

With your back to him, you took a deep breath, trying to keep your composure, though you wanted to cry for him.  You blinked, squeezing your eyes tight shut for a moment, then dropped to your knees to search through your duffel bag for another towel.  You found a small hand towel which you decided was better than nothing, and handed it to Daryl so he could dry himself off whilst you emptied the dirty bucket of water over the porch railings.  

Returning inside, you quirked your eyebrow at him, and husked, 'Right, on yer knees.’

Again, you were met with a glower, so you tugged the other bucket closer to him and smiled softly.  'I wan’ t’ wash ya hair, angel.  Ya could fry eggs on that mess, as my Momma would say.’

Reluctantly he dropped to his knees, bending forward over the bucket and dropping his head down into the water.  You reached your hands down inside, swirling the water around, and massaging it into the greasy lengths, before cupping small handfuls of it and bringing it up to pour over the back of his neck and roots.  

You felt Daryl relax as you worked, his muscles becoming noticeably less tense, and you continued in your actions for a little longer than necessary, thinking he must be relishing in a touch that didn’t aim to hurt him.  

When you’d finished, you passed him back the towel and went back outside to ditch the last of the dirty water, giving him time to dress himself before you re-entered, sliding the bolt into place and locking you both in for the night.  He’d moved his chair back to the table and was sitting on it sideways so he could lean back against the wall.

'That feel better?’

He nodded, his eyes finally meeting yours, and you saw his thanks there, though he didn’t say it.

'Good.  So, ya hungry?’

He nodded again, and you sighed.  'This gon’ be a long night if ya ain’ gon’ talk y'know, angel.’

’M'hungry,’ he growled, his voice low and gravelly, rougher than usual, you guessed due to lack of use.  

You walked over to your pack, retrieving a couple of cans, and some berries that you’d picked in the wood earlier that day.  

You gave him both of the cans, determining his need to be greater, and sat down opposite him, picking at the fruit whilst he ate, tipping his head back and pouring the contents down his throat, barely chewing before he swallowed.  You wondered how long it had been since his last meal.  You’d noticed that his ribs were protruding when you washed him down, his flat stomach a harsh contrast to his barrel chest.  When he’d finished, he let out a satisfied sigh, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

'Ya wan’ any more?’ you asked, knowing that Jesus was likely to bring more supplies back with him in the morning, but Daryl shook his head.

'Jus’ water, if ya got it.’

You fetched a bottle from your pack and watched him guzzle it greedily.  When he’d finished he looked a little more like his old self, his eyes had lost their dullness, and he was sitting a little straighter.

'Ya tired?

He shrugged, his focus back on the dusty wooden floor, and you nudged him with your foot under the table.

'What sort o’ answer is that?’

'I’m tired, but I ain’ gon’ sleep.’

'Well, that makes no sense.’

'I get nightmares.’  His voice was barely audible, but you heard the pain behind it and you reached out a hand to his, grasping it gently, and running your fingers over his knuckles.

'About what they did to ya?’

'About what I did.’  He refused to meet your gaze, but he didn’t pull away from your touch.

'What you did?’

When he didn’t answer, you pushed yourself up from the table and sauntered over to the row of cupboards in what would have been the kitchen area, pulling open one at the bottom and pulling out a stash of blankets.  From the next one, you retrieved a couple of pillows, and you chucked them onto the floor, arranging the blankets next to them.

From a top cupboard, you retrieved a couple of candles, stuck fast with wax onto jam jar lids, placing them on the ground by the pillows and flicking your lighter against the wicks, the flames cutting through the darkness that was seeping in, as the sun sunk lower in the sky outside.

Daryl had watched you moving around, preparing the cosy bed, but shook his head when you reached out your hand to him.

'Come on, it’s okay,’ you murmured, approaching him slowly, as though he were a frightened animal.  

'I told ya I ain’ sleepin’.’

'So don’t.’  You stood in front of him, taking his hand again, and tugging slightly on his arm.  'But at least come an’ lay down.  It’s more comfy, an’ it’ll get cold when the sun goes down.’

He allowed you to pull him across the room, before dropping to the floor to lay on his back, reaching behind his head to rearrange his pillow, and letting out a contented moan.  You settled down beside him, laying on your side and pulling your knees into your chest, your eyes still fixed on the archer as a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

The room fell silent for a while, and you almost thought that he’d fallen asleep, despite his protests, his face relaxed, his eyes closed.  You reached over to brush his fringe back so you could study his face in more detail, this man, your angel, finally looking at peace.

His eyes flickered open, drifting to you, before he turned his gaze to the ceiling.  

'I got Glenn killed.  It was my fault.’

'Glenn?  He was one of yer group?’  Realisation hit you, and you closed your eyes as you remembered what Jesus had told you.  'He was one of the one’s Negan killed.’

Daryl nodded slowly, and you saw tears forming in his eyes, looking away quickly, embarrassed at noticing his moment of emotion.

'How was it yer fault?  Sounds to me like the blame lies with the guy with the big freakin’ baseball bat?’

'He was only gon’ kill one.  He said only one person needed to die, to make a point.’

You held your breath, waiting for him to continue, not wanting to say or do anything that might make him clam up again.

'I lost it, the way he was talkin’ to Rick, to Maggie, to e'ryone.  I went for 'im, decked 'im, got a few good hits in 'fore his guys dragged me off.’

He let out a shaky breath, and you could feel his distress coming off of him in waves.  You tentatively let your hand creep across the blankets, finding his fingers and linking yours loosely with his.

'He wasn’ happy that I was standin’ up to 'im.  Said he had to shut it down.  Then he…’

His voice broke and he didn’t finish his sentence, but you knew what Negan had done.  Your heart broke as you thought about Daryl locked away somewhere, hungry and in pain, with the weight of this burden pressing on his chest.  You knew how it felt, to feel the guilt of bringing about death, though yours had been more directly, and you hated the thought that your angel had been tainted by his own conscience.  

'Oh, angel,’ you whispered softly, lifting your other hand to softly cup his face, wiping away the tears that tracked along his skin.  'My angel, it wasn’ yer fault.’

'Ya don’ know.  Ya weren’ there.’

'I didn’ need to be.  There are a hell o’ a lot o’ bad people in this world.  Why’d ya think I decided to live how I did?  Easier to kill 'em than risk 'em turnin’ on me.  Y'ain’t one o’ them.’

'Ya don’ know me.’

'I think I do.  I think yer my opposite, the yin to my yang.’

'The angel to yer devil?’ he asked, raising an eyebrow at you, a smirk breaking through the look of misery on his face.

'Exactly.’

He sighed.  'I don’ know what I am anymore.  I don’ feel like an angel.  I don’ feel good no more.’

'How do ya feel?’

'Like I wan’ kill e'ryone.  I wan’ kill every single Saviour with my bare hands.  I wan’ feel their blood.  I wan’ see the fear in their eyes.’

You fell silent, watching his eyes flash with rage, before he got his emotions under control, running his hand through his hair and breathing deeply.

'Sorry,’ he mumbled.  'Not tryin’ t’ scare ya.’

'Oh sweetheart,’ you whispered.  'Y'ain’t scarin’ me.’

You propped yourself up on your elbow leaning over the archer, running your fingers over his cheek, until they settled under his chin and lifted his face to yours.  Your lips pressed against his, soft and gentle, barely moving as you breathed him in.  

'Wha’s tha’ for?’ he grumbled as you moved away.

'I guess I jus’ realised that maybe yer human after all.’  

He scoffed.  'How’d ya figure?’

'Wantin’ to kill the people that hurt ya, that murdered yer friends.  I think that’s the most human thing I ever heard.’

'It’s not what we’re about though.  We’re supposed to be better than this.  That’s what Rick’d say.’

'Screw Rick.  He ain’t been through what you’ve been through,’ you snarled.  'He ain’t been made to feel like you have.’

'Maybe I’m jus’ a devil in disguise.  Maybe we’re more alike than ya think.’

'Ya still think I’m the devil?’  You tried to keep the hurt from your voice.

He shook his head, his eyes meeting yours as he raised a hand to slip behind the back of your neck and pull you back to him.  

'Nah, not anymore,’ he whispered against your lips, before he kissed you again, pulling you into him, as his fingers laced into your hair.

'No?’ you pushed, as his mouth left yours.

'After all ya done for me today, I reckon there’s a human soul in there somewhere.’

'Maybe we’re both more human than we make out, huh?’

You trailed your fingers down his chest, over his stomach to the hem of his shirt, lifting it up so you could study his bruises again, your breath catching in your throat as your eyes roamed over the discolourations that covered his skin.

'What ya thinkin?’  He asked, as he watched you watching him.

You carefully ghosted your fingertips over his body, hovering over his injuries, not wanting to hurt him as you explored the damage the Saviours had done.

'I’m thinkin’ I like ya even more now that I know y'ain’t an angel after all.’

'Yer not judgin’ me?’

'No, Daryl, I ain’t judgin’ ya, but ya don’ wan’ to go down that path.’

'Maybe I’m tired of always tryin’ to do the right damn thing.’

’S'not easy in this world. I should know, I been there. Everythin’ I did was driven by this anger that I had inside o’ me, that I’d been left alone, that my friends were gone. But it ain’t for you.’

'I can’t always be yer angel. 'Sides, they took my wings.’

'So, let yerself be human, but force yerself to be a good one. Ya don’ have to be an angel, but don’ lose yer soul.  Don’ let 'em take it.’

You smiled sadly at him, knowing how easy it would have been to encourage his need for revenge, to join him, to fight at his side, but you knew that in doing so he would lose himself, and you would slip back into the darkness.

His arm snaked around your waist, pulling you into him, leaning his forehead against yours as your eyes locked.

'Why are ya doin’ this?  All yer ever wanted to do was bring me down to yer level.’

'Cos ya saved me, Daryl, the night of the storm.  Ya stopped me from bein’ somethin’ I didn’ wan’ be no more.  So, I’m gon’ help you become what ya need to be now. Ya can’t let the devil win.’

You gave him another gentle kiss, the lingering look you exchanged as you pulled away promising more to come.  

'Thank you.’


End file.
